She could see it, feel it, even taste what it had been like. She could remember exactly how he had felt as he plunged into her vagina, precisely how he had held her effortlessly in his arms. It was like she had been given a wonderful present, which she could take out and examine-with huge delight whenever she felt the urge. The urge had become urgent. Twice since Tuesday night Clare had masturbated and on both occasions had come ferociously as she relived the experience with the builder. She had deliberately recreated the conditions, masturbating in the bathroom, bent over the side of the bath. She masturbated on the bed. Both the places he had taken her. Usually she could extend her masturbation rites for a long time, luxuriating in the feelings she created, but the thoughts of Gary had provoked her too powerfully, and her orgasms had been achieved in no time at all. She sipped her coffee, wondering what David had dreamed up for tonight. If Bridget had not intervened she might well
‘GARY?’ ‘Who is this?’ ‘Clare.’ ‘Clare?’ ‘Clare Markham. You're standing in my house, remember?’ In the middle of a very disturbed night’s sleep Clare had suddenly realised how she could contact Gary. He would be working in her house on Saturday morning and might answer the phone. She’d dialled her own number at nine o'clock in the moming. ‘Oh right, Ms Markham.’ He sounded distant and unfriendly. ‘Clare,’ she corrected. ‘I didn’t have your number,’ she explained. ‘My number.’ He sounded puzzled now. ‘Yes, so I could ring you.’ ‘Why would you want to ring me?'That was not the reaction she’d been expecting. ‘After Tuesday night I thought that might be obvious.’ ‘Oh.’ 'Gary, you do remember?’ she asked with alarm. 'Yeah sure,’ he said noncommittally. ‘Well?’ ‘Well what?’ ‘I'd like to see you again.’ His tone changed. ‘Really?’ he said brightly. ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Did you think I wouldn't?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘After what happened between us?’ ‘Tjust thought...’ ‘What?’
She saw his red Toyota pick-up park a little way down the street. She had been waiting, guiltily, in the front bedroom watching for it, the love-sick schoolgirl unable to do anything else. . She managed to resist the temptation to run downstairs and fling open the front door before he’d walked up the garden path. Instead she waited at the top of the stairs and walked down sedately once he’d rung the bell. ‘Hi,’ she said. 'That was very nice of you.’ She sat down next to him and touched his arm. ‘I thought Mr Wickes had hired a professional cleaner.’ She nodded at the bottle. 'Would you rather have a glass?’ 'This is fine.’ Clare realised she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him outside the subject of the work on her house. They didn’t know each other well enough for silence to be comfortable, so she scratched around desperately for something to say. 'What's your next job?’ she asked, finally coming up with a topic. ‘Fulham. House conversion into two flats.’ ‘That’s i
‘DARLING, HOW ARE you?’ ‘Overworked and underpaid.’ Clare kissed Angela Barker on both cheeks then pulled herself back up on to the bar stool she had been occupying. Angela wriggled on to one beside her, the fact that this made the short skirt she was wearing reveal even more of her slender, shapely thighs attracting the attention of several men. ‘The usual?’ Clare asked. ‘Please.’ Clare caught the bartender’s eye and made a signal to indicate that she wanted another glass identical to the one already sitting on the bar in front of her. Angela had rung her at lunchtime and they’d agreed to meet in their regular haunt, a club tucked away in Bruton Place which was equidistant from Angela’s office and Clare’s. Angela had said it was urgent. 'So?' Clare asked. ‘What's the problem?’ ‘No problem. Just an opportunity.’ ‘So what's the opportunity?’ ‘You know that builder of yours? That hunk.’ Clare looked at Angela steadily, hoping her face gave nothing away. She hadn’t told her fri
‘Thanks, Miriam,’ Gary said, as they squeezed into the banquette. ‘Is himself about?’ ‘He’ll be in later,’ she replied. She looked at Gary with a smile, and Clare caught, for the briefest of moments, an expression of lust on her face. Then her more professional demeanour returned and she walk back across the bar, her long legs attracting admiring glances from most of the men she passed. Clare looked round. Beyond the bar was a large restaurant, bustling waiters. It was decorated in shades of blue, with dark blue walls, a pale blue carpet and a huge display of corn flowers placed on a table in the centre of the room dramatically lit by an overhead spotlight. The rest of the restaurant was dimly lit, with candles flickering on every table, their light reflecting off the sparkling polished glasses and silver cutlery that was set on crisp, starched, white linen tablecloths. 'You like it?’ he said. ‘Beautifully done. So tell me about your friend?’ A girl in the club uniform of gold le
Clare turned away from the window. Though it was in the furthermost recesses of the room and not lit directly, she could see a large, very low double bed. In the dim light she thought she could make out a figure lying on the ruffled white sheet. ‘Well, here’s to your taste in women, pal,’ Malcolm said, handing Gary and Clare their glasses. The champagne was delicious, cool and refreshing. Clare sat down next to Gary. ‘Honey, you awake?’ Malcolm shouted loudly without looking round. ‘It’s showtime.’ The figure on the bed stirred. It stretched and yawned. ‘She’s always sleeping,’ Malcolm said. ‘Hi, honey.’ The figure got up from the bed and walked into the light. She was young, probably no more than nineteen, and tall, with raven-black hair so long it hung down her back and brushed over her small but pert buttocks. Her face was long, with high cheek-bones, a large, sensual mouth and big, dark-brown eyes. She was naked apart from a pair of tiny black panties, no more than a triangl
WEEKS AGOIT WAS HER birthday. It was June. It was hot. Very hot. Hot and humid. The sun was high and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. A party had been planned for that night. All her friends would be there. But her best friend, Andrea Hamilton, had asked her to go for a bike ride in the afternoon, down to the small lake they had found, their secret place. The water was fed from some underground aquifer and was always cold. It would be delicious to swim on such a day. The ride made them hot and sweaty. Abandoning their bikes under a huge horse-chestnut tree, its shade extending out over the water's edge, they pulled off their T-shirts and shorts, kicked off their socks and trainers and dived, naked, into the water. They swam for hours, or so it seemed, then lay on the grass under the broad-leafed tree, shaded from the sun. And that’s when it happened. She could never remember how exactly, whose hand had stroked the other’s body, or whose lips had brushed the other’s mouth, a
AT EIGHT THIRTY the next morning Clare’s phone rang, waking her from a deep and apparently dreamless sleep. It was Bridget Goldsmith.‘Look Clare, I'm sorry to ask you to do this but I need you to come to Paris this morning. We've got to go over some problems with Claude.’ ‘Fine. It’s an hour ahead, right? I suppose I can be there by midday.’ Her mind had snapped into gear. 'Come straight to the office. We'll be waiting.’ 'Fine.’ Clare rolled out of bed and into the bath. In fifteen minutes she was dressed in a smart, lightweight grey suit. She drove her car to the airport, left it in the short-term car park and bought a club-class ticket to Paris on the first available flight. There was a thirty-minute wait. In the lounge she dialled her secretary's home number on her mobile phone and told her of the change of plans, asking her to call the French office and arrange for a car to meet her flight. She called Gary’s home. She hoped he’d be free tonight. She badly wanted to see him